


Crash into the Ice

by leveragehunters (Monkeygreen)



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: ABSOLUTE SPOILERS for the mid-credits scene, Bucky didn't make his decision lightly, Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Post-Credits Scene, Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Spoilers, Gen, Missing Scene, No Fluff, Some angst, This is not a fix-it, leading up to the mid-credits scene, one brief reference to suicide, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-12
Updated: 2016-05-12
Packaged: 2018-06-07 19:04:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6820411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Monkeygreen/pseuds/leveragehunters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><b>The entire summary is a spoiler for the mid-credits scene.</b> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Bucky didn't make the decision to go into cryo lightly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crash into the Ice

**Author's Note:**

> I wasn't going to write any post-Civil War fic. I was happy over in the Weird AU Enclave of Fluff and Ridiculousness. But sometimes a fire gets lit in your brain that makes you try and write a specific something. This is that something. (I'll be sneaking back to the Enclave after this.)

* * *

 

 

It was an old memory, floating up from the depths of long ago: sitting next to a slender boy with blue eyes like the ocean and sunlight hair, fractured colour from the stained glass painting highlights on his skin.

_Steve._

They were pressed together, knee to hip to shoulder, while a steel-haired man in black, white collar gleaming, poured words from the front of the church.  The words were fractured like the colours on the boy's skin, but he remembered two houses: one built on rock and one built on sand.

The one on sand fell and great was the falling of it _._

The one built on rock stood strong through winds and rain and floods, stood strong through everything.

 

* * *

 

_The red book, its black star filling his vision. The words._

_He was beyond fear, beyond terror. The inevitability of this moment subsumed everything. He was helpless. He fought and fought, was strong enough to destroy everything in his path, and still he was helpless, the words counting down to the moment he would cease to be. When he would become their weapon._

_Was this a dream? What part was the dream? What was more likely to be real? This, or the other, where he'd been free?_

_The metronome ticking of the words, counting down in his mind like a bomb. It wasn't his mind. His mind belonged to them. So would his body in five...four...three...two..._

"Bucky."

_...two..._

" _Bucky_."

His eyes opened.

"You with me, Bucky?"

Was he? The tall shape standing in front of him blurred. Became other people, people with the words. Became Zemo, became Pierce, became endless nameless faceless handlers.

"Say that again."  His voice was a cracked, harsh whisper.

"Bucky?"

"Yeah."

"Bucky." It was strong, certain; a constant of the universe, a truth that could not be disputed.

_Steve._

_My name is Bucky._

He lifted his eyes to meet brilliant blue. Steve was gazing down at him, eyes filled with concern. "I'm with you." As he watched, the concern faded a little from those blue eyes, like clouds blowing clear of a summer sky, leaving behind what was always there when he looked at Bucky: a subtle mix of faith, belief, trust. It woke a faint anxiety in Bucky that tasted of copper and ash.

"You want to talk about it?"

Bucky looked at him. Saw not Steve, standing still before him, but Steve flipping past him like a filmstrip. Running, fighting. Older memories, half-formed, but always, _always_ , for Bucky, always on Bucky's side.

He shook his head.

"Okay. Mind if I sit here for a bit?"

"Knock yourself out." A smile ghosted across Steve's face and he sat next to Bucky, close enough Bucky could feel the heat from his body.

He'd taken Steve's belief that he _was_ Bucky, Steve's faith _in_ Bucky—starting with his words on the Helicarrier and assembled from memories and history—as the rock on which he'd rebuilt himself. Had stitched himself together from everything he could remember and everything he refused to be. He could never again be the Bucky Steve had known, but he was no longer the thing he'd been made into.  Steve didn't seem to mind; seemed content with the Bucky he was now.

With ten words Bucky could lose everything.

He'd thought he'd rebuilt himself on the rock of Steve's faith, on the solid strength of _Bucky;_ instead, he was perched on the shifting sand waiting to fall and fall and fall.

 

* * *

 

It was...strange to be without the arm. It was history repeating only this time there was no pain, no blood on the snow. The Wakandan technicians who expertly trimmed wires and servos, dealt with the exposed inner workings of the arm, were careful and precise. Taking care not to crowd him or hurt him.

Steve was there, standing over them, all golden watchfulness.  Bucky was sure they'd have been just as careful without Steve's overprotective presence, but he also knew he was never going to find out.

There'd been no Steve the first time.

Bucky didn't remember it _well_ , he didn't remember anything _well_ , but he remembered. Remembered the whine of the saw and the pain.

Remembered blood on the snow.

"You okay, Bucky?"

"I'm fine, Steve. It doesn't hurt." Steve didn't exactly seem happy with that answer, as if _doesn't hurt_ wasn't good enough.

It didn't hurt, precisely. Just tugged. Just felt like pressure. Just felt like he'd lost the arm and didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

It had been HYDRA's arm. It had been HYDRA's weapon, just like him. Now it had been blown off by one of HYDRA's, by one of his, by one of _their_ victims. It seemed fitting.

The arm had been dangerous; now it was rendered inoperative. It had become, in a way, what Bucky had thought _he'd_ become: no longer a weapon, able to _choose_ not do that anymore. Until the book, until the words.

If only the triggers in his head, the ticking time bombs lurking in his brain, were as simply disposed of as the arm. _Well they_ _are_ , he thought with sudden black humour, _but that's not a price I'm willing to pay_. It must have shown on his face because suddenly Steve was closer than he had been, earning him a brief narrowed look of disapproval from one of the people working on his arm. The man might as well have been throwing disapproving looks at a force of nature for all the difference it made.

"It's nothing," Bucky told Steve. The hand that settled on his right shoulder said Steve was not convinced.

In Siberia, when they'd walked past the tanks of dead Soldiers, he'd felt a brief, sliding moment of envy. Not because the Soldiers were _dead_. Because they were _free_. No one could control them. No one could take their will.

Death was not a solution he was willing to pursue. Not before, and—he glanced up at Steve, who met his eyes, brows raising slightly—definitely not now.

Steve would never stop fighting for him; it was a truth burnt into whatever tattered remnants were left of Bucky's soul. The same way he would never stop fighting for Steve, had sworn it in Siberia, in oaths carved bruised and bloody into his own skin. Even when he'd been battered nearly unconscious, for Steve he'd found the will and the strength to keep fighting, to reach out with his remaining arm to distract, to grab hold, for a crucial second.

 _I don't do that anymore_ , he'd told Steve, but for Steve he'd made the choice to do whatever needed to be done. For Steve, he'd chosen. For Steve, he would always choose. To choose was a gift after so many years without choice.

A gift that could be snatched away. Everything he'd reclaimed could be stolen and the Winter Soldier once more resurrected in his place.  It had already happened once.

 

* * *

 

Sleep didn't come easily. Sleep never came easily but tonight, still healing, still adjusting to the loss of the arm, his mind whirling with chaotic thoughts like a tangle of birds that wouldn't settle, sleep wouldn't come at all.

He walked the short distance to Steve's room.

Bucky avoided stealth as he opened the door and slipped inside; _stealth_ was likely to trigger something neither of them would want to deal with. Steve woke immediately, not startled, calmly opening his eyes, which must have quickly adjusted to the dim light. "Bucky?" 

"Yeah."

Steve sat up. "Everything okay? Did you have a nightmare?"

"No."

He was standing near the door, watching Steve blink himself to alertness as he asked, "What do you need?"

"Not sure I need anything."

"You just felt like waking me up?"

"Something like that."

"Thanks for thinking of me," Steve said dryly. He could feel Steve studying him, feel him weighing his words, before he asked, "You want to share?" and slid over to the far side of the bed, patting the empty space.

Bucky had a half-formed memory of a tiny apartment and a frozen winter and sharing a bed with a much smaller Steve to keep him warm. A less solid memory of an army tent and this Steve holding him tight while he shook apart after...after...there had been fire and flame and fear but the memory ended there. "I'm just gonna stand here for a bit."

He could see the hesitation on Steve's face. He could see him wanting to ask what was wrong. He could see the moment Steve decided to simply accept. "Sure thing, Bucky. You let me know if you need anything."

"Go to sleep, Steve."

"If you change your mind, it's a big bed."

Bucky shook his head and leaned against the wall. He knew watching someone sleep wasn't exactly normal. Stacked up against everything else he'd done, it barely registered. He knew Steve didn't care. Judging by Steve's breathing he was sleeping better with Bucky standing here.

It wasn't surprising. Bucky knew Steve had too much trust, would never defend himself properly against him. He remembered the Helicarrier.

If the cost of saving his life was taking Bucky's, Steve wouldn't. Bucky was sure of that. Steve would let Bucky kill him first.  If the cost of saving civilian lives, innocent lives, was taking Bucky's...Bucky thought he'd do it if it was the only option, but Bucky didn't think Steve would survive. 

All of that would hold true even if Bucky was gone and the Winter Soldier was walking around in his skin.

That was the problem. Steve had brought him _back_. He couldn’t look at the Winter Soldier and _not_ see Bucky.

It meant as long as the triggers were in his mind, as long as they could be activated by anyone with the right words, it wasn't just Bucky who was at their mercy; Steve was, too.  Bucky's mind couldn’t be trusted. The only way to make it safe was to put it out of reach.

 

* * *

 

"Do you think. If I wanted to go into cryo. Could you do that?"

T'Challa's eyes were kind.

It made Bucky uneasy. He knew why Steve looked at him like that. Steve saw him through a fractured prism of everything he'd ever been.  T'Challa saw only the man he was now, stitched together from pieces of history and memory and another man's faith, and still his eyes were kind.

"I can, if you believe it's the right thing for you."

"I don't know. I only know I can't risk not doing it. As long as everything HYDRA put in my head is still there I'm anyone's weapon to be used. I'm too dangerous."

"You don't think you'll be safe here? I've given my word we will protect you."

Bucky's eyes were bleak. "It's not that. I can't stop thinking about it. And Steve, he'd—." He shook his head. "I feel like I'm just waiting for it to happen. Not if, when. It's gonna come and I'll be helpless to stop it. I'll be gone and the Winter Soldier's gonna come out and people will die. A lot of people will die."

T'Challa nodded in understanding. "For how long would you like to be put under?"

"Until there's a way to get my mind back. To get everything HYDRA did out of there."

"That could be a long time."

"I know." T'Challa was looking at him and his eyes were kind and Bucky looked away. "It probably sounds stupid. I hate feeling helpless so put me in cryo where I'll be helpless. "

"I think you're mistaking helplessness for powerlessness. You are making a sacrifice you believe will protect people. I think that is powerful. I know you've had your choices taken from you. This is your choice. By making it, you're taking power back for yourself."

Something tight and painful eased in Bucky's gut. He ventured a tentative smile that got wider when T'Challa returned it. He felt something settle inside him, like a dislocated joint clicking into place.

"I will have the arrangements made."

"Thank you."

"I think there's someone else you must tell," T'Challa said gently.  

He blew out a long breath and his smile faded. "Yeah."

 

* * *

 

"Steve."

He couldn't help it. Hearing Bucky say his name made every hair on his body stand up. It was adrenaline and something that felt like joy, with a sideways trip into expecting to wake up and none of it would be real. He turned around and Bucky was standing there. Definitely real. He smiled.

"Gotta talk to you about something." He was holding himself stiffly and Steve couldn't help wondering if he was still hurting.

"Whatever you need." There. That was almost something that could have been a smile. A pale ghost haunting the face that used to be so expressive. But Steve didn't need him to be the Bucky he used to be. Steve just needed him to be _Bucky_ , whoever that was, whoever that turned out to be. Just needed him. A ghost of a smile was a gift.

"You're not going to like it."

Steve's smile faded. He found himself planting his feet like he would for a blow. Caught it and forced himself to stop. "Okay."

"I asked T'Challa to put me into cryo and he agreed."

Steve didn't understand the words at first, as if his ears and his mind had decided to protect him.  Bucky simply stood, patiently waiting. When he finally understood, his heart stopped. It just stopped beating. "Why?"

"Because I still have HYDRA in my head. Everything they put in there. Until there's a way to get it out, I can't risk what they can do to me, I can't risk what they can make me do. I can't risk you."

Steve's heart was a stone in his chest. "You can't." _I just got you back._

"I have to."

"I don't understand. Bucky, how is that going to help? We can look for something to get it out. Wouldn't that make more sense?"

"This is the only way I can be sure. It's the only way I can make myself safe. For everybody."

"Stay. I'll help you. We can make sure you're safe. Bucky...You're worth _everything_ to me. Please don't do this." Steve wanted to grab Bucky and hold onto him. He could pull a helicopter out of the sky to keep Bucky with him, by strength and force of will, but now he was ninety eight pounds of asthmatic weakling, tiny and sick and scrawny, all his strength worth nothing.

"Steve." Bucky was being gentle with him. Steve hadn't been sure he still knew how. "You did the same thing."

Steve looked at him in confusion.

"I read about it in the museum. You had a plane full of bombs and no other way to keep people safe, so you put it down into the ice." Bucky's voice was gentle, so gentle, and his eyes never left Steve's.

He shivered. "Bucky." It was a whisper. "I went down expecting to die."

"I know. The difference is, I've got you to catch me. I can go in knowing I'm safe because you're waiting on the outside." Steve opened his mouth but no words came out. He drew in a breath, another. Bucky leaned forward. "They put a time bomb in my mind no one knows how to defuse. Anyone with the right words can set it off. This is the only way."

Steve searched his face, looking for some sign, some hesitation, some indication he was anything but committed to this. All he found, for the first time, was a kind of peace. "Do you have to do this?"

Bucky was studying him. Steve felt himself stand taller, lifting his chin. "It's what I need," he said, eyes dark with something that called to mind long ago Brooklyn alleys and Bucky pulling him out of fights or throwing himself into them, feet and fists first. "But if you tell me not to do it, tell me not to go under, I won't."

It was on his lips, on his tongue to say: _Don't. Don't go under. Don't leave me. Don't go down into the ice._ He couldn't do it. Not to Bucky. Not for himself. There was not one thing in this world he wouldn't do for Bucky, including let him go.  "I can't do that."

"Then it's what I'm going to do."

"How soon?"

"Soon as they can get it ready."

Steve lifted his hands to cup Bucky's cheeks, feeling the rough brush of stubble against his palms. Felt tension sing under Bucky's skin, a ripple that flowed through him and was gone.  Bucky swayed towards him and he gently pressed his lips to Bucky's forehead, half prayer, half benediction, and closed his eyes.  "I'll miss you."

"Don't let them take seventy years."

It pulled a breath of shaky laughter from him, ghosting against Bucky's forehead. "I won't."

 

* * *

 

Bucky sat on the gurney, watching Steve attempt to be casual.

Steve was pacing through the room, making himself as tall as possible to eye each person who would have anything to do with putting Bucky under. His hands were stuffed in his pockets to stop himself from grabbing onto Bucky. He had insisted on helping Bucky dress, had gently pulled the cap over the end of his metal stump, as carefully as if it could feel pain. 

He couldn't keep the smile out of his eyes as Steve made his way to stand in front of him.

"You sure about this?" Steve asked, but Bucky heard, _You can still change your mind. Just tell me and I'll make this stop. Are you sure this is what you need to do?_

And Bucky replied, "I can't trust my own mind. So until they can get this stuff out, going back under is the best thing for everybody," but he knew Steve heard, _This is what I need to do. I trust you. Watch my back._

Steve's hands-in-the-pockets trick didn't work when Bucky stepped into the cryotube. He felt Steve's hands on his back, steadying him. When the nurse reached for the restraint Steve was there first and Bucky's eyes never left Steve's while he fastened it across his chest.

When Bucky closed his eyes, he took the memory with him and all he could see was blue. He didn't feel helpless, because this was his choice. There was no fear as the cold poured in, only trust. He knew he was safe.

The cold was rising. He was fading.

He was crashing into the ice, crashing into the blue, into the silence, and all that was waiting was peace.


End file.
